


All Dressed Up (And No Place to Go)

by alllthatglitters



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Dresses, Gen, Warning: Contains Piss, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alllthatglitters/pseuds/alllthatglitters
Summary: It's just an average dress fitting.Except it isn't.
Kudos: 11





	All Dressed Up (And No Place to Go)

It's hot.

Oppressively, disgustingly hot.

Klinger's tent is an oven and he's a piece of baklava, trying to hydrate with a pitcher of lemonade Able brought by, as he works on a new dress pattern his uncle Zach sent.

It's too hot for clothes, too hot for him to wear anything but his skivvies, and the lemonade is heaven for his dry throat as he sews.

His fingers are starting to hurt, his eyes are burning from squinting, and the pitcher is bone dry by the time the dress is even close to done, but he doesn't even notice as he squirms on his desk chair in his shorts, doesn't even notice the occasional sharp ache from his belly, because the dress – _Allah_ , the dress is wonderful, and will turn a few heads if he's lucky (a general's head if he's luckier) and it'll look _great._

He shifts in place, humming under his breath as he finishes the last few rudimentary stitches, and holds it up, uncrossing his legs as he leans back in his seat, and the urge hits him, sharp and surprising like a pool cue to the gut- he needs the latrine. He shifts again, cautious, wondering if he can test the limits of what he can hold, and it's then that it clicks- the pitcher is empty because _he's_ been filling up.

His stomach dips a little from dread (he thinks) and he glances towards the door, before back down at his work.

... Well. His piss won't spoil if he holds it another few minutes, and besides- then he'll know what to work on when he's back from the latrine.

He gently pulls the dress over his head and stands up- his first mistake.

No longer confined by the pressure of the chair, his bladder feels like it's expanded suddenly, like a big water balloon, that makes his legs wobbly, thanks to gravity.

He presses his thighs together under the dress as he turns towards the mirror, studying himself.

The dress _is_ nice, with a full skirt, the pleats flowing nicely down from the bodice which is- it's thankfully not a lower waistline, he thinks, shifting from one foot to the other.

There's something really wrong, he thinks, something not right-

Oh! _Oh._ it hits him.

The dress is bunching funny around his waist, making it awkward, _because he's still in his shorts._

So he quickly tugs them down, sighing a little at the relief of no longer having the tight waistband digging into his belly.

The urge to relieve himself has abated somewhat, but as he stares at his crumpled shorts- oh.

He's not gonna be going around commando in it, no way, that's a little too much like everything he denies being.

So still feeling the ache of his bladder (with its own pulse, a tick like a stopwatch), he pulls on a pair of light blue satin panties and goes back to modelling the dress.

(And if his bladder twinges a bit when he leans down to tug the panties on, he doesn't acknowledge it. It's not that bad. He can wait.)

He's moving from side to side, wanting to see how the skirt moves, if the motion is fluid enough, but all the jolting from side to side makes the ache in his bladder worse, and for one terrible second it feels like the whole thing is being squeezed in a fist, and he moans a little, ignoring the new dress and shoving his hand up his skirt to press against himself, terrified he's going to piss his new dress (and his heart rate spikes in his chest, his cock twitching with need.

But after a second, the urge abates and when he gently prods the satin, there's no dampness, and he nearly falls over from relief.

His whole gut, his cock, all of it, it all feels _tight_ and _hot_ and he kinda starts to squirm as he notes down measurements and moves stray pins, his body shaky with need, and he's starting to sweat.

He can still make it though, just a few more notes on the dress, so he can tell Uncle Zach if the pattern will work. And his tent isn't that far from the latrines so who cares if he gets in there and just _streams_ (the dirt floor won't thank him and neither will whoever uses it next, not with all the spattering)

And Max moans a little, thinking of how good it would be, how wonderful it would feel to just let go-

_No! No no no!_ His mind screams at him, jolting him from the half-fantasy, and he realizes he's sort of jiggling around, in a half-perverse dance, trying to keep from letting go.

A few more notes, he thinks desperately. He can't go to the latrine now, he'll forget them!

It's almost funny, watching himself in the mirror, dancing around like a toddler, and he has three more pins to move with his free hand, but he's too shaky, so it takes a few attempts.

He's on the second pin when his bladder decides to contract again, a sharp pain followed by- oh Christ he thinks he feels a spurt of liquid heat against his hand.

But when he lifts the skirt of the dress up, there's nothing, just an overactive imagination.

The second pin goes in easily.

He's halfway through the third pin when it happens. He feels a few drops slip out and oh- oh no.

Forgetting the pin, he crosses his legs, and pulls the dress over his head, his whole body shaky as he tosses it on the bed, and he's not making it to the latrine, he can't, and he's still standing in front of the mirror, a hand desperately pressed between his thighs as if that could somehow prevent the building pressure from overwhelming him.

He's naked but for the panties, and he wants to pull them off but if he moves his hands now, he won't be able to stop the flood surely awaiting him, building up in his bladder like a dam.

And then a spurt escapes, an actual one, and he moans at the tiny bit of relief.

And when he looks in the mirror, all he sees is his flushed face, his bright eyes and his hands clasped between his legs, which don't seem to be working anyway.

With a tiny thrill of anticipation swooping in his belly, his heart still pounding in his ears, he stops grasping his cock, pulling his shaking hands away and holding them behind his back (parade rest they call it).

He watches himself, and then everything seems to stop, because this is wrong, this is all _wrong_ but-

And then there's a gush of warmth in his panties, sudden and exhilarating and Max moans because oh _Allah_ that feels good.

And oh- oh it _looks good_ , in the mirror, the dark stain spreading out rapidly from his cock and flooding, and he spreads his legs as it pours out the sides of his panties, pattering on the dirt with a hiss as it pours into and around the satin.

Some of it is streaming down his legs, the heat of it still cool compared to the heat of the afternoon, and he can see the outline of his cock pressed into the drenched satin now, and all he can smell is himself, is _him_ , is the sharp smell of pure utter relief and it's- it's a sex smell (the smell of release, he thinks, spreading his legs a little wider)

And oh, oh it doesn't seem to _stop_ , even as the warmth starts to build in his panties, seeping back up between his buttocks, dripping from the silk and making little _plink_ noises as spurts splash into the sizable puddle around his feet, as he's pissing too fast for it to be absorbed into the dirt.

"Ohhhhh."

He massages his lower belly, urging it on, pushing out spurt after spurt, and the relief is unmatched by any orgasm he's had ever, and he looks up at the mirror and sees just the golden stream, and the blue satin made darker by his release, and it's all so damn _pretty_ and no one will ever know.

He can still feel it sloshing around a bit as he turns around to stare at the drenched panties, the dark stain even up into the back of the panties, his feet splashing in the puddle of his own making, stirring up the smell again, hot and pungent inside his nose like a good whiskey.

He finally, finally starts to feel empty, but he's- fuck, he doesn't want to just end with a dribble.

Ruining a pair of panties deserves a good finale, he decides, so he quickly tries to hold back his flow (it's futile, there's still a bit of spray in any case, and tugs the panties down a tiny bit, freeing his cock, which is slippery in his grasp.

He spreads his legs a little, the satin caught between them, the hot air cool on his wet cock, and presses his hand back against his bladder, and bears down.

And there's one brief, final, _glorious_ stream that shoots right down into the panties, spattering them and his drenched legs.

He watches as it tapers off, dripping, and lets the panties drop to the ground with a wet noise.

He stares at himself in the mirror, soaked and glistening wet from the waist down, still dribbling at intervals and standing in a puddle that he made, shaky and more than a little satisfied, even with the ruined panties.

He'd love to let himself dry in the hot air, but he doesn't need anyone coming in and seeing him like this (there's crazy and then there's the mental ward in Tokyo), so he mops himself dry with his abandoned shorts (which have escaped the wrath of his bladder at least), and tugs them back on, sitting down at his desk, finally able to concentrate on his letter to Uncle Zach.

Only, he thinks, glancing back over at the steaming puddle, he doesn't think he'll mention _everything_ about the fitting.


End file.
